


(Not Gone) Long Enough to Echo

by CaptainJacq



Series: Echoes and Ghosts [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Difficult Decisions, Gen, Kidnapping, Post 5X13, mentions of all other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainJacq/pseuds/CaptainJacq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal had been kidnapped more than once before. It was, unfortunately, a symptom of the life he liked to lead. But given his past experience in this type of thing, Neal had not been expecting where he ended up. Or the offer that was presented to him.</p><p>Neal finds himself with an opportunity almost too good to miss, but nothing good comes cheap and taking them up on it means giving up everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not Gone) Long Enough to Echo

Given his career choices, Neal was not new to being transported with a bag over his head. He wasn’t immune to the bright panic that flared with the black fabric clinging to his mouth and nostrils as be breathed. Or the strength of other people holding him still and then, without thought, dragging him forward, tripping over his own feet. He wasn’t immune to the fear that settled low in his stomach and burned; a small, but present campfire as the truck continued to move.

 

He wasn’t immune to feeling anything, but he was experienced enough to know how to trace where they took him. How to count the lights and turns and breathe long and slow to keep himself calm and on top of the situation.

 

Neal had been nabbed like this more than once over the years, but this was different. Somehow he could feel it, in the quiet calm of the grab, the precision of the whole operation, and the careful way that they kept driving, around and around, turning here and there and looping back around to get him lost.

 

They knew who he was, they knew what he did and they knew where to find him. Worst still, they knew how to make him disappear. It was the perfect moment for them to take him, really. A moment when the DOJ had rejected his application to amend his sentence, his previous handler was moving to Washington the next morning and the likelihood of Neal Caffrey taking his chance and running were as high as they’d been since he had Kate to chase. It was perfect. No one was going to be looking in the right places for him for days because they’d think he’d made a run for it, and Mozzie wouldn’t be there to tell them otherwise because he was making plans for them to do just that.

 

Neal was screwed.

 

The truck rumbled to a slow crawl and then came to a jerking stop, cutting Neal’s thoughts off quickly as his kidnappers made their move.

 

Just as quickly and efficiently as they’d taken him by the riverside, they moved him up and out of the van. The doors clicked open just as two sets of arms grabbed him upright and pushed him forward down into another set of waiting arms. From there it was a fast march, across an echoing underground car park, through a set of doors with a security gate, down a long corridor and into an elevator. Another security pass beeped then, in the otherwise quiet, and the elevator moved. They were going down, Neal noted, down at least four floors, if not more, before the elevator came to a jolting stop and the movement started again.

 

His guards marched him through another three security checkpoints before Neal was dragged to a stop and another beep of a security door waylaid him into a room. He was hauled five steps in and then pushed down into a seat at a metal table. His hands had been cuffed back in the van and the chain was dragged out of his lap, pulling him forward while it was chained to the desk. It was only then that the bag over his head was pulled off and he could see where he was.

 

The lights were fluorescent bright and blinding and it took him a moment to be able to see anything at all. When he did, it didn’t surprise him. Any place with this much security and a team that quick and efficient screamed government and he wasn’t far off. The White Collar division had a certain appeal with its interrogation rooms. The funding for their division had gone up after all, given his and Peter’s track record and considering the type of crimes they typically dealt with there was a certain _je ne se quoi_ that went with the territory. They had a reputation to keep up with.

 

But this, this was as grim as they came, black walls and sharp steel at every corner, over lit and a long stretch of double sided glass.

 

Neal wasn’t surprised, but he was curious and wary and exhausted given the stress they’d put him through. It was only now where he was in at least an environment he could recognise that his heart had slowed from it’s tattoo rhythm and he could attempt to breathe properly.

 

Leaning forward awkwardly he rubbed the flickering lights out of his eyes and tried to take a few long calm breaths to get himself back under control.

 

He knew his every move was being scrutinised, that he was as off the grid as they came and whatever happened next was going to change everything. He wasn’t stupid after all.

 

They left him waiting, though. He almost laughed at the cliché technique as he counted the minutes between when he’d been dumped in the chair and when the door finally opened and the very definition of a Suit came through. He was mid fifties, greying, but sharp, his eyes were hazel and dangerous and he moved with the grace of a man who had known every inch the limitations of his own body. Neal sat up straight and watched him as carefully as he was being watched as the agent crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite Neal.

 

The man stayed silent, simply opening the very thick file he had in his hands and Neal would have made bets with everything he owned that it was his own file long before the man finally spun the pages around and pushed it forward enough for Neal to see.

 

Neal stared idly down at his own face from his FBI report and sighed.

 

“He looks familiar?” Neal said, sourly with a heavy dose of sarcasm. Watching the man’s face intently, but there was no tick, no blink of irritation or consternation or anything at all. He was a blank mask and Neal shifted forward in his chair to take a little of the stress off his wrists.

 

“You’re a very busy man, Mister Caffrey,” the man finally said, pulling the file forward so he could read it again and turned a page.

 

“You’ve kept quite a list of extra curricular activities over the years, especially given your day job of making every other government department in the FBI look like an embarrassment.”  


“What can I say, I like to keep myself busy,” Neal replied, watching as the man flicked through the file and feeling a deep sinking feeling at the photographs he recognised. Pictures he’d seen recently in the hands of Rebecca. Of Rachel.

 

“I can tell. I’m particularly fascinated by this double cross last year, having Agent Burke lock you in the closet only to break out, run across the atrium, go upstairs to the penthouse, steal a Degas, and jump off the side of the building so you’re still downstairs when they’re done. That’s impressive work. All while Agent Burke and Agent Berrigan are stuck in the first elevator. That takes dedication, precision and a great deal of guts. You’re a very talented thief, Mr Caffrey.”  


“We all have our talents,” Neal snarked.

 

“Yes, well, your portfolio of talents goes a long way. The McNalley Solitaire, the Falconer Manuscript, a Raphael, bond forgery, forging various currencies and all that evidence going missing or suddenly destroyed. That’s a portfolio on it’s own and it’s not going anywhere near the rumours about you and the Vinland Map, Washington’s love letters and the Antioch Manuscripts. Carrier pigeons, really?”

 

The agent peered up from Neal’s file then; quirking an eyebrow in what Neal considered to be amusement. Neal shrugged, feigning the same nonchalance that he had adopted years ago. It was flattering, really listening to the recount of old deeds and past glories. What made it even better was the knowledge that there were still parts missing, jobs and winnings that even Peter had never proved or suspected him of. There were jobs that Neal had never admitted to; even in the years he and Peter had been friends. There were jobs that never made it into his file, and every time Neal had hinted at something just to test the water had felt like a game. Mozzie had once alluded to the fact it sounded strangely like a cat dropping dead animals at it’s owners feet waiting for praise and Neal had ignored him. Mostly because he could see the comparison himself.

 

But this felt different. Even looking at the detailed file, it felt different, like they had been following his every move for years, had absorbed the information everyone in his life had ever compiled about him into one massive dictionary entitled ‘The Life and Work of Neal Caffrey’. It made him edgy and wary and anxious. He wanted to go through the file and see what they knew, what they had on him and what they suspected and maybe have some idea what they wanted him for. Because Neal felt like he was sitting under a guillotine waiting for it to drop.

 

“I’m all for a perusal of past exploits if you’re willing to talk, but I’m afraid I don’t kiss and tell,” Neal replied, pronouncing the words carefully as he collected himself. Squaring his shoulders and forcing his gaze away from his file and everything it meant.

 

“Then that is perhaps something we share in common,” the agent said with a smile that was more of a sneer than anything and Neal wondered idly why they had sent someone this unlikeable in to interrogate him if this was the sort of approach they were taking.

 

“Something we don’t share in common is a goal for the future.”  


“I wouldn’t say that,” Neal replied, jauntily, taking his opportunity to be a bit of an irritation while he could.

 

“I fully intend to have dinner at this little restaurant in Westchester I found years ago. It was family run, so I hope it’s still open in two years, because the gnocchi I had there was the best thing I’ve put in my mouth since I was in Ciociario.”

 

“What if I told you that you could go and find that little place tomorrow night.”

 

“I’d ask what you were selling and still tell you I wasn’t interested.”

 

“And you’re not even tempted to hear me out?”

 

“When an opportunity sounds too good to be true, it usually is, and that’s coming from a criminal. Nothing good is ever that simple.”

 

“Then what _are_ you going to do for the next two years, Neal? After all, your request to have your sentence commuted was rejected before it went anywhere at all.”

 

The expectation in the man’s face then was fixed and demanding, and in that moment Neal wanted to get up, he wanted to slip the damn cuffs and get out of there because it was like the man could see exactly what had been going through Neal’s head back in Brooklyn all those hours ago now, the betrayal, the indignation, the anger.

 

“Because to me it seems like you have two choices, Neal. Either you make a run for it, and remain a fugitive for the rest of your life. Or you stay, in New York White Collar and hope that at the end of your sentence that they abide by their own rules and cut you free.”

 

Neal narrowed his eyes and leant back in his chair, scrutinising the man in front of him. He felt like they were trying to manipulate him, and he wasn’t sure if they were trying to be subtle about it or not. He knew normally he’d be laughing if he weren’t entirely sure that it was working, no matter how much he desired otherwise. They were pressing the right buttons in all the right ways and Neal felt uneasy, his fingers tingling with the premonition that they weren’t even pulling out the big guns quite yet.

  
“What are you trying to say?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady, forcing them to work for a reaction.

  
“I’m saying, Neal, that we have a third option for you. A middle ground, so to speak. After all, Peter has his job in Washington. Diana Berrigan has her child, even Clinton Jones has his promotion and none of them have anything to offer you.”

 

And oh how that _burned_. Neal had spent years learning to control his body’s reactions and reflexes but he had to fight hard not to flinch, because no matter how aware he was of their intentions, the agent’s words _hurt_. They were every thought he’d had at 3am, every shadow of jealousy and anger he’d pushed away because as much as they mistrusted him, for a small flash of a moment in time, they’d been a family. Peter and El and Diana and Jones and Mozzie and June. Neal’s Family.

 

But just like everything else Neal had ever touched, it was gone, turned to ashes under the tips of his fingers and he was never going to get it back. It was gone. Peter was gone. Elizabeth was gone. That hope for a life where he was trusted and loved and normal was all gone. And what was worse was the fact that the people who he needed so desperately to put his own puzzle back together didn’t need him at all. Peter and Elizabeth had cut their ties. He wasn’t part of their lives anymore. After everything they’d been through, Peter had turned his back despite what Neal had done to his own life in order to save his friend’s. Neal had sacrificed the last chance he had with his real father by getting Peter out of jail and in exchange Peter had burned the bridge between them, unable to accept Neal’s truth in comparison to his own. It didn’t matter what Rebecca had turned out to be, Peter had made his decision and stuck by it long enough that there was no going back. Neal didn’t have Peter to lean on any longer. All he’d had left was a dream of going free all on his own. Getting the anklet removed, gaining his freedom. That had been the reward he’d wanted; his acknowledgement for a job well done.

 

Instead he’d been denied and declined and desolate.

 

And now he was here.

  
“What’s your offer then?” Neal asked and while the agent’s mouth didn’t curl, and he didn’t blink or twitch his fingers or even move a muscle, Neal still saw the flash of success in his eyes, and for a moment he felt like he’d just given his whole life away already.

  
“Work for us,” the agent said, and this time he did smile, cold and unforgiving and smug as a slid a blank form across the table within Neal’s reach. “We have a very restrictive door policy, usually. But we also have the ability to recognise and utilise a specific skill set when we need to, and you have a very particular skill set, Neal. You’re a man who plays by his own rules in a very particular and successful manner and we have the ability to let you utilise those skills without the restrictions of your former employers.”

  
“You want me to join the CIA? Really?”

 

This time the agent did actually smile, a sharp, twisted thing that made Neal wonder if this man had chased him ten years ago and failed.

  
“Think of it as expanding what you have now. In New York Agent Burke held your leash and now he’s relinquished that hold to whoever is set to replace him without a second thought. After all you did to clear his name and the man you once called a friend has turned his back.”

 

Neal went still in his chair and for once in his life avoided eye contact with the person in front of him. He bit his tongue, trying to keep a hold on the surging emotions that were set to swallow him whole and leave him gasping. For a moment all he could think about was every word Peter had said against him, every sharp look and stiffened back. Every silence when there should have been words. Every betrayal. All of it culminating in his conversation with Jones not a handful of days ago: _don’t offer to take Neal on; you’ll regret it._

 

When Neal blinked himself back into the room, back into the chair opposite the agent in his suit and expensive watch, the man was looking at him, scrutinising him like he knew exactly the effect he’d had. But when he started to talk again a moment later, his tone was softer, almost kinder.

 

“The duty you’ve done to the FBI and your country has been second to none of your kind, Neal, you’ve gone above and beyond what anyone had expected of your deal with Peter Burke. And yet while your company receives recommendations and promotions you’ve been refused absolution and left behind. This is not a manipulation of facts, Neal; it’s the truth. All that is left to you is breaking the law or keeping your leash, and given your history, I’m not keen to lay money on staying clean.”

  
“What if I say no?” he croaked.

  
“Then we will take you back to the park and leave you to your fate, as it were. I’m sure your little friend will have enough put together for you to disappear without the anklet ever coming into the equation.”

 

Neal was surprised at that; that they’d let him go without the anklet instead of just taking him back to the FBI without an explanation.

 

“And if I say yes?”  
  
“Then we shall broaden your horizons, as they saying goes. You’re a very intelligent man, Neal, and you could still do great things if given the opportunity. This is the opportunity.”  


“What happens to my record?”  


“Expunged. As it were. Given the circumstances. We intend for you to work in the field, playing those games you’re ever so good at. Getting in and out without being seen or heard.”

  
“And New York?”  


“Would be behind you. There are steps we will have to follow if this is the world you choose. Neal Caffrey will no longer exist. He will disappear from the riverside earlier today without a trace, only for his body to be found in six months time in New Orleans. Neal Caffrey will have to die. Your friends will never know what happened to you and you will never see them again.”

 

Neal still felt hollow but there was an echo of another feeling running through him, then. It startled him how quick the feeling grew, morphing into something desperate and terrified; it felt like grief for a life he hadn’t even left yet.

 

Neal had decades of empty lives under his feet, dozens of alias’ both legal and otherwise and for a moment he clung to the idea that leaving Neal Caffrey behind would be the same as George Devore or any of the others; shedding a skin and wearing in a new smile. But the idea shattered in the wake of his friend’s faces as he imagined them, Peter and Elizabeth starting their new lives in Washington DC and the looks on their faces when they heard he was dead. Diana and Jones packing up his desk in the bullpen, the expression June would wear when she heard the news. Mozzie. Dear ole Moz.

  
Neal had to dig his nails into his palms to soothe the surging rush of his own emotions then, had to fight for a moment to keep his composure and push it all back. Peter and Elizabeth. Diana and Jones. June and Mozzie.

 

All of them would think he was gone, dead, and would never find an answer. But Peter would have Elizabeth and together they’d build their lives in Washington into something blinding and perfect. Diana and Jones would be okay. Di had Theo, after all, her little boy, and Jones was strong and steady and was following in Peter’s footsteps like a champion. June, that wonderful woman, had her children, and her grandchildren. She had no need for the conmen who lived in her empty upstairs apartment. She’d mourn him, in the way she’d mourned other troublemakers over the years who didn’t keep their boundaries. She’d try and look after Mozzie.

 

But there was no one in the world that Mozzie stuck by the same way he’d stuck by Neal. For all their years apart while Neal was in jail, Mozzie had flittered along on the breeze as he did, making favours and cashing others in as he was wont to do. But at the heart of it, he had stuck it alone until Neal got in contact again. It had always been the two of them against the world, before Kate, and after, and every moment in between.

 

Without Neal, there wouldn’t be anyone really to take care of Moz, and that, after everything else, hurt the most. Mozzie, who had got him in more trouble in the last four years than the others combined, but the one who had always stuck by him through every thick and thin. Who believed what he said, without question. Mozzie had always taken care of Neal when he couldn’t do it himself, and in that moment Neal knew he had one thing left to give. One thing for Moz.

 

“What about Mozzie?”

  
“We have no interest in your little friend, Neal,” the agent said, with the barest hint of amusement.

  
“Good. It has to stay that way,” Neal said, without any room for question. “I want that written down. I want it written down that you wont go after him for anything we’ve done in the past; anything in your creepily detailed folders here or in some other office in New York or on the other side of the world. If I work for you, then I want him left alone. That’s my deal.”  


The agent was quiet for a moment and his eyes flickered to the double-sided glass behind him. The room was quiet and Neal counted it out. He knew in that moment he could make a number of demands and have them met, but he also knew that he was backed into a corner. They were offering him an escape, yes, but they were also condemning him as well. Even if they dumped him back in the city he still had to get to Mozzie while the whole of New York White Collar looked for him. Because he knew they would be. Neal was without his anklet after having his request for his freedom revoked. He was as good as sitting in prison already. Not even Peter would stop to listen to him try to explain anything now.

 

All he had was this. This.

 

The room was quiet and then, there was one knock on the glass and then a second and the agent turned back to him, his lips curling into only what Neal could describe as a slimy smile.

 

“That wont be a problem,” he agreed and Neal felt a rush of relief envelop him and then there was nothing.

 

“Okay,” Neal agreed. Slumping back in his chair, boneless and empty of all feeling.

 

“Okay,” he said, again. “I’m in.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been my headcanon from the moment I finished shouting at my TV after the finale finished. That whole thing felt waaaaaay too precise and ordered, ESPECIALLY after Neal's request was denied. SOUNDS FISHY TO ME. PLUS! What are you gonna do when your poster boy starts misbehaving AND his babysitter is moving on to bigger and better things? Find him something to better occupy him. And what better way than being a SPY???
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about this theory, ok? And i'm willing to go in depth with them. Imma gonna try and make this a series. But my writing abilities are strained at the moment so I have NO IDEA how long it'll take. But the opportunity is there. I mean, come on. SO MUCH TO EXPLOREEEE.
> 
> Until next time.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> CJ


End file.
